Mr Monk and the Bad Poet
by OnlyANorthernSong
Summary: Poems I wrote. No flames, please.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own Monk. No Flames, please. I hate them. They make me weep uncontrollably. If you hate it, I really don't care. Sure, I'll cry, but my tears mean nothing... if you hate it, just don't review it. Because, I'll know that if no one reviews it, it sucks. LOGIC PEOPLES! So, don't Flame. (even if you really, really, REALLY hate it.)

Thanks.

--

My First Monk Poem

--

It was cold within that room,

With all it's melodramatic gloom.

The walls were dark and painted white,

The rooms were lit with a crackling light.

The Captain stood, his posture straight,

He'd told me that I had to wait.

I sit here on this metal chair,

My hands running back on my curly hair,

My thoughts running wild, a horrible fate,

As I think of ideas that I really hate.

The thought of her gone- the thought of alone,

The thoughts then broken by the ringing phone.

I straightened and stood, with a nod at my boss,

And I took the phone, and was told of my loss.

My legs turn to jell-o,

As I whisper, 'Oh, God, no,'

And felt a hand on my shoulder I knew.

He said that it hurt him, too.

He whispered that he was sorry for me,

Then he left me to a scene I wanted no one to see.

I stood with my hand, running down the gray wall,

Feeling emptiness crowd me, as I hung up the call.

The dial tone ended, abruptly and quick,

As the clock watched down at me, with a tock, and a tick,

The seconds blew by me, the minutes came, too,

And I was left in that room, doing all I could do.

The tears were refreshing, so glad I could cry,

My Wife, my Life, my Trudy, had died.

--

Once again... no flames. Happy-go-lucky reviews are fine, though.


	2. Chapter 2

I decided to add another chapter because my profile has WAY too many oneshots. The beginning of the poem isn't good, so don't leave just cause the beginning sucks. In my opinion, it gets better later on (ie, the rhymes are AWFUL near the start, but later on, it gets better. I think.)

---

The world is messy,

Unclean, and gross,

With horrible germs,

Anyone knows.

I live in this world that I hate,

In this germy, unorganized place.

The only one I cared for,

Died- the hurt is still sore.

I cannot forget her- I cannot, I know.

I have all her pictures still up, they still show.

Every night, I sleep, on the bed we once shared,

To show her somehow, that I still care.

But she is gone, I am alone.

My quilt of hopelessness is sown.

I have few friends, I have few dreams,

My quilt of hopelessness has desperate seams.

I wish to find the one who killed Trudy, so Justice will rise,

For, alone, the blind lady Justice cannot survive.

And though I'd devote all my time to catch the one who broke me,

There are still so many others, who are broken, I see.

I'll help everyone, if I can get close,

To help the one, that I love the most.

To find who has killed her, to bring them their fate,

They shall fry, or die, with thoughts of my hate,

They shall know that I hate them, and hate them, so much,

And, oh, how I crave, dear Trudy's sweet touch.

Her laugh, and her smile, her eyes, so bright,

The apple of my eye, my heart's bright light,

If I can retrieve these things I miss so,

Then, with that action, I can truly know,

That she's been avenged, her death, though in vain,

Did not take away, her love, and my cane.

I can still live, if her memory does, too,

Dear Trudy, my love, you know I love you.

And if I can do this, and find who broke me,

Then maybe, just maybe, this blind man can see.

The world may be messy,

Quite unclean, and gross,

Sure, there are germs,

Everyone knows.

But perhaps with my heart, mended once more,

My hatred for the world, won't be so sure.

Perhaps with the comfort, my mind shall gain,

Her memory, like herself, can be my cane.

I will be true to myself and to her,

The apple of my eye, my love, to be sure.


	3. Chapter 3

Okay- this is the first I've done in Natalie's POV, and I did it because...Bum, Bum, BUUUUM: I had two chapters on here, and wanted three. I'll be adding them periodically, even if no one reads them. BTW, Flames Rising...what did I say about flames? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Some people never listen...

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

All my life, I've been messy, with trash all around,

As a child, my toys, in my room, they'd abound.

As a teen, my clothes, my books, and my toys,

Would disappear only when came visiting boys.

As an adult, I soon saw,

It was worse- my taxes, and problems; they were the law.

I thought that my actions, were like anyone's,

And that there was no way cleaning could be done,

But it was a day, a while ago,

When I saw this, in fact, was not so.

There came to my home a man very strange,

Adrian Monk, was this fellow's name.

He was odd, somewhat tall, in a suit, wrinkles, none,

And in days my tough case was amazingly done!

Fearful, of course, for a man had broken in, I was in tears,

I had actually killed a man- stabbed him with some shears!

I was shocked, I was guilty, I was broken inside,

It was horrid, and gruesome, I wanted to hide.

But then it was over, he'd done it, that man,

And then he had asked me if I can,

Be his assistant, and of course, I said, yes,

And I shouted it, surely, with no finesse.

My daughter Julie was proud, she was joyous, and glad,

And Mr. Monk, in a way, became her new dad.

Sure, he was odd, and quite out of place,

When he came to my home, and unorganized space,

But I cleaned it for him, and you know he was proud.

Now I help him with cases, I don't really know how,

But I give him wipes, and I give him my time.

It won't be enough, what he did for me was so kind,

I'll help as long as I possibly can,

For he saved my life, that odd, strange, strange, man.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

NO FLAMES! Please.


	4. Chapter 4

I don't own Monk.

One more so that the number of chapters is even.

And yet there are three poems on here, not four. Oh, well. For the price of one!

---

It doesn't matter if it's not clean,

It doesn't matter to me.

It doesn't matter if it's not straight,

That isn't something that I hate.

It doesn't matter anymore,

I lost that part when I lost you,

If you come back,

Then I will, too.

* * *

She used to smile at me,

with a smile no one can imitate,

Her lips would turn, and twist, and smile,

And my heart would beat faster and more.

She used to laugh at all my jokes,

ignoring they were corny.

She'd laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh,

Ignoring I was boring.

She used to say she loved me,

And she'd never leave.

I like to think the first was true,

Though the second was a lie.

She left me.

* * *

I know she's gone, I know she left.

But I feel her when I return home-

She's there within that space.

I feel her within my home,

And she's giving me a place.

She urges me on, she encourages,

And helps me when I'm sad.

She tells me everything's okay,

Even when it's really bad.

I know she's gone, I know she left,

But I know I need her still.

I've kept some tears in the back of me,

For when that day comes,

And Trudy's finally killed.

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These were actually the first three poems I wrote for Monk, and I just found them.


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